


Walk A Ragged Mile

by mickeym



Category: Original Work
Genre: Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-19
Updated: 2010-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two soldiers, one dying and one on the run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk A Ragged Mile

The early morning is chill, with patches of fog swirling through the air, and lingering in the dips and hollows of the gray and green patchworked countryside. Smoke, thick and acrid, follows the damp wisps. Atlanta still burns, and even from a distance of tens of miles, I can actually taste the throat-choking stench of burnt wood and flesh, from both hundreds of buildings and those who couldn't escape quickly enough.

Everywhere around, as far as the eye can see, the land lies ravaged from the war which has dragged on for years longer than anyone imagined. I joined four years ago, fresh-faced, innocent, ready to win my fortune and glory, and freedom for the South.

Now I can hardly remember what innocence is. I know I no longer qualify.

The mule stumbles over the rocky ground, and the small cart lurches, sending me sprawling across the seat. I grab onto the side with one hand and the reins with the other, trying to reassure the animal that everything is all right. She stumbles again before regaining her balance, falling back into the slow, plodding pace which has led us steadily away from the worst of the destruction.

Us. I glance back at my companion and pull hard on the reins to stop, causing a snort of disapproval from the mule. She hardly warrants a second glance, but the other occupant of the cart has turned a sickly greenish-gray color, his eyes wide and surprised in his pale face.

"'M gonna…be sick--"

I'm over the back of the seat before he's finished his sentence, shouldering him up gently, trying not to jostle him any more than necessary. We've done this so many times now in the last several days that I've gotten it down pretty well. We hang over the side of the cart while he brings up what little bile is still in his stomach, mixed with a fair amount of blood. It spatters the ground in a mosaic pattern of yellow-green and red, contrasting vividly with the trampled dirt path we're on.

Idly I wonder how much blood a person can throw up before they don't have anything left, then shudder and push that thought to the back of my mind. Alex is even grayer now; his skin clammy and cold, and so ghostly pale beneath the gray. I know he's dying; I wonder if he does?

"Cal--"

His voice is so weak now, scarcely a whisper. I can't believe this is the same man who threatened to shoot me, just a week ago, in a deep, husky baritone. Even his lips are gray, and the only time I've seen his eyes open since sunrise last is just before he throws up, when they fly open in surprise. I push his hair back out of his eyes. "Don't try to talk, Alex. Need to save your strength."

"Lemme go. You go…go on…"

"Don't talk stupid, Yank. I'm not gonna let you go. What sort of honorable man would I be, if I did that?"  Of course, what sort of honorable man deserts his comrades? But I can't let this man die, either. Honor has become something dark and twisted within me, and I run as much to escape it, as anything else.

"'M dyin', Cal… *go*."  Weak as he is now, he can't push away from me. He needs me just to hold his head up for the tiny sips of water I get into him. "If they…catch you…"

"If they catch me, then we'll die together. You so eager to die, Yank?"

He shakes his head, his lips pressed together in what would probably be a frown, if he could make the muscles of his face work. I shift around until I can settle him back onto the floor of the cart, covering him up with the rough burlap sacks I grabbed when I stole the cart and mule. The one beneath him is stained with blood, the gleaming wet spreading, matching the stain on the dirty rags I used to bandage his thigh.

If we are caught, we'll be lucky to die. I haven't told him that; I'm sure he knows. Him, a Yankee officer, and me a southern deserter, they'd send us to Andersonville, where hanging would be the kindest thing that could - would - happen to us. In spite of the things I've done in the last four years, I have no desire to dance on a gibbet; I've seen too many end their lives in that fashion.  Alex wouldn't live long enough to hang, likely; he'd die before the death warrants could be signed, and the ink dried.

I hazard a look over my shoulder at him; he's either asleep, or unconscious again. Either one is a blessing; at least he's not aware of the pain that way.  The memory of his smile of gratitude when I lifted him out of the pile of bodies around him burns me as deeply as his fever burns him. Maybe it would have been kinder to shoot him then, rather than saving him only to let him die a slow, painful death.

His breathing, ragged and sharp, keeps me company in the chill pre-dawn as we head slowly west.

 

*****

 

Our mule is starting to look as puny as Alex. I don't know that she'll survive much longer without food and water. I can see her flanks heaving each time we slow for a rest. I wish I had some feed for her; dumb animal or not she's done well by us. We're far enough away now that I can't see the smoke from the ruins of Atlanta any longer.

Atlanta. The thought of my home burning makes my eyes sting viciously, and not just from the smoke which filled them for the last several days. For a moment I allow myself the luxury of hating all Yanks, and wishing vile fates to befall them. I consider dumping Alex here on the side of the road, and heading west as quickly as the mule can carry me. With no cart or dying person to slow me down, I could make considerable time.

I can't do that. I can't. It's not Alex's fault that Sherman decided to burn Atlanta. We're the pawns in this game, following orders, trying to do the best we can.

I want to hate him, and I can't. How can I hate a man who's going to die?

How can I hate a man who saved my life, even if it was unintentional?

I don't want him to die. If he dies, then all this has been for naught, because if I can't save one life amidst the hundreds I've taken, what's the point in trying to stay alive myself?

Alex is like me, I think. An honorable man who's been twisted inside by what he's seen. He threatened to shoot me, then fell because of me, taking a bayonet which was aimed at my back. I owe him a life debt I know I can't repay, but I'll do my best with the time left to him.

I found him a week ago. The first day he didn't speak to me; after that, those first few days, we became friends. A Yankee officer and a Rebel officer, bonded together by pain and blood and suffering; staying together out of need. Before the fever took him so bad, he was a good companion. Now he's a burden, but I feel bound to him in ways I can't explain, so I stay with him, determined to see this through.

I wonder if my mother and the girls got out all right. I hope so. I'd hate to think that all of our resistance and fighting amounted to naught, though it already seems as though that's the case. Sherman's march was the final blow to the south. She'll never rise again. Not to the glory she was before the war.

Alex is coughing in the back again. I don't need to look any longer to know he brings up blood each time. How many different places can a man bleed from at the same time? I need to get us off this road for a while; find some cool shade to rest in, maybe some fresh water. I filled the canteen the last time I found a watering hole, but the water tasted brackish and very bitter. As thirsty as I've been, I couldn't manage more than a few swallows; Alex refused it outright, his lips getting drier and drier, until I had to hold him tight and wet them, ignoring his struggles and pleas not to waste water on him.

A small thicket of trees gives us a break from the sun's heat, and I unhitch the mule so she can forage from what little grass is there. Not much water here, either; it seems like all the water holes are low. This doesn't taste as bad, at least, and even though Alex moans in protest, I get a couple of swallows into him. He chokes on them, spitting a lot of it back up, and I have to fight the urge to slap him in frustration.

"Stupid Yank! We don't have enough water as it is, and you're wasting it like this?"

He won't drink from the canteen anymore, so I fill my mouth and press it against his, opening unresisting lips, letting the water trickle down the back of his throat. Alex tastes of sickness, a strange, almost-sweet taste; it lingers in my mouth for a moment after I've pulled back. He sputters again but I clamp his mouth and nose closed until he swallows, his body relaxing back onto the ground after a moment.

"Too...much trouble."  Faint, whispery, his voice sends chills up through me; makes the short hairs on the back of my neck prickle and stand on end.

"No it isn't, idiot. If I give you water, then you live a while longer…maybe until I can find you a doctor."

"Not…make it, Cal…" He shifts just a little, his body spasming once as muscles that have gone lax are forced to move, and covers one of my hands with one of his. "I…know."

I know too, but I'm not going to tell him that. I squeeze his hand roughly, then shift myself back against the nearest tree, settling him so his head is in my lap. I can smell the sickly-sweet odor that comes with gangrene; I've smelled it too often in the last four years not to recognize it. Even if I found a doctor today, right now, at the very least Alex would lose his leg, to say nothing of the wound in his belly. And as far gone as the infection is now, I'm not certain even that loss could save him, any more.

"Hush, you ungrateful Yank. I'm tryin' to save your life." My voice is rough; probably from the smoke I inhaled yesterday. It couldn't be from the knot of emotion closing my throat, choking me. Why should I feel so much sorrow over the loss of one Yankee, when I've killed so many others? I can't think of one single reason, but I know I do; the thought of Alex dying is enough to shake me clear down to my toes. I shut my eyes and grip his hand tightly for a moment, easing up when he moans softly. When I look down, his eyes are open, the dark hazel looking at me with an expression I've seen in my own when I've watched myself shaving in the looking glass.

"Send…a letter for me?"

I'd never asked, but he's married, certainly. I had someone once, too, before war turned my dreams into something like nightmares. Is his wife still alive? Family? Does he have children? Someone to remember him as he was, before war robbed him of innocence, dignity and life?

"To--?"

"Sister…she's young…staying with my aunt…." He whispers an address, and I repeat it over and over until it's committed to memory. I may be a fugitive from the law; I may be a deserter. But I've given my promise to a dying man, and I'll die myself making sure I keep it.

I don't let go of his hand; my other one creeps up to stroke his hair. He's hot; like the fire in Atlanta has transferred itself to his body, burning what little strength remains in him into nothing.

"I have three sisters," I begin quietly, needing to do something to fill the silence around us. I'm not comfortable with this death watch; I need to be doing something. But it's too hot right now to continue in the cart, we'll have to wait until evening. Hopefully I won't be making the journey alone. Alex squeezes my hand once, his eyelids flickering. They close, but I know he's listening. "Susan's sixteen; Emily is thirteen and Amy is eleven, going on twenty-one. They're wild, all three of them, and they drive my mother crazy. She's sworn every day of their lives that she was going to send them away to Grandmam's, though she never did. At least not permanently." I smile thinking of my sisters; two with black hair, as dark as the night sky without stars or moon, and Emily, thirteen, headstrong and courageous, with a red-headed temper to match her impetuousness.

"…pretty?" If Alex minds my fingers stroking his forehead, he doesn't say so; instead, he leans into my touch, his face loosened a little. I can see when the spasms of pain hit the worst though; his lips tighten into a hard, gray-red slash across his face.

"Well, I'd never admit it to them, but yes, they are. Hellions to the core, each one, but beautiful. Father called them wild fillies; made Mother so mad, to compare her daughters to horses."

I'll never see them again. I can't ever go back; I can't send word to them that I'm alive and well. I'm a deserter; an honorable man who did the most dishonorable thing a man could do--turned his back on his comrades in arms.

I couldn't stand the killing any longer. The hate, the treachery, the loss of innocence on all sides, all of it. So I ran, losing pieces of me in the process.

And receiving part of me back in the form of the man I'm holding right now.

"…more?" I nod at his whisper, then wipe his lips with a dampened piece of cloth I tore from my shirt. It's marginally clean, and maybe if I can keep his lips from chapping so badly, I can prevent at least a little pain.

"I'm from Atlanta, y'know." His eyes fly open at this, wide and surprised. I shrug; what's done is done. "It's over, and she'll be rebuilt. Won't matter to me, since I won't be there anyway. Where d'you want to go? Out west? Mexico? How about we head up to Alaska, see Seward's Folly with our own eyes?"

Alex struggles against me, his hand tightening on mine until his knuckles shine whitely against the skin. "Not…going…gonna…die, Cal…."

"No, you're NOT, you bloody stubborn…*Yankee*!"  One minute I'm happy with memories of the past; the next, blindsided by rage, frustration, sorrow. Yes, he's going to die. No, there isn't a damn thing I can do about it. I don't like it, not one bit. I struggle against the urge to hit him, to pound him into the dust until he no longer exists. What right did he have to come along and call to some part of me that I thought had died inside? To awaken that part of me that used to be honorable, to make me realize I needed it? What right did he have to become my friend, to make me care, when he was only going to leave me in the end, anyway? I let go of his hand, my own clenching into fists, fingernails biting into the callused skin of my palms.

"Cal."  I jerk in surprise when his fingers touch my face; he's wiped away tears I hadn't realized were falling. Dammit. He touches my lips with his fingertips, and I can taste the salt left there, just a tiny burst against my tongue before it's gone. When he touches them to his own lips, my heart stops inside my chest, my lungs stop pumping air, everything around us goes silent. The stillness makes his whisper seem even harsher. "Don't--grieve…."

"You're an idiot, Alex Searcy…a bloody fool."  I'm a lot dirtier than I'd thought; when I scrub at my face, trying to wipe away the tears I can feel hot against my skin, my hands come away black with dust and soot. "I'm not--"

"…liar…." His hands are shaking, but they're gentle; when he touches my mouth again, all the air leaves my body in one great whoosh, leaving me gasping silently, trying to understand where these feelings - this intense sorrow - are coming from. "I'll grieve…too."

"You'll be *dead*, Alex! How the hell can a dead man grieve?" I clutch his hand tightly, ignoring the palsied shaking of both our hands; ignoring the burning heat of his.

"My...soul...can." His eyes are dark, his face so pale. "You...you're...my friend...."

"I'll hate you forever if you die."

"No." The smile on his face is the sweetest thing I've ever seen, and it leaves me aching that he's aimed it at me. And he's right, damn him. I won't hate him. I can't hate him.

How can I hate someone who is inside my heart, has become a part of me?

I start talking again, trying to fill the quiet, to stop what's coming. If I can string together enough words; if I can focus his attention on me, on what I'm saying…maybe I can cheat death. Maybe *he* can cheat death.

Maybe.

 

*****

 

An owl hooting overhead startles me; I can't believe I dozed off like that. I look around sleepily, trying to ignore the burning, itching feeling of eyelids gone crusty from crying and so much else. It's quiet now in this thicket; just past sundown, from the feel of it. Not quite night; more like twilight, when shadows and shades play, dancing about just out of sight of mortal eyes.

Alex's chest is still rising and falling, but much more slowly, with low gasps and moans, and strange, watery gurgles as his lungs fail. The stench of rotting flesh rises around us, but it's nothing more than I'm accustomed to, and easily dismissed. I slide my arms around him carefully, pull him closer to me. I'm not sure, but I think he's hotter. He's burned with fever for so long now, it couldn't get any worse, could it? Seven days ago - only seven? - he was large, broad, well-muscled. Tonight his flesh is beginning to sag where it's being literally melted away, consumed by the infection inside him. Already he feels lighter than when I first hefted him over my shoulder.

If I had a knife large enough, I'd cut his leg off myself, try to save him. It'd be useless, though, which is why I won't try. I won't commit him to the afterlife as less than whole.

Tears sting my eyes as I trace around his face gently, giving him the comfort of touch, giving myself the luxury of committing his face to memory. A friend found and lost at nearly the same moment. Dark brown hair, hazel eyes. A week's worth of whiskers on tanned, wind-chapped skin. A long, patrician nose and elegant mouth, though his lips are chapped and cracked with dryness. His pulse beats erratically beneath my fingers when I rest them against the hollow of his throat. His eyes open, watching me silently.  Committing me to memory? Do dead men have memories?

More memories explode through my brain, remembrances of the first couple of nights on the run, huddled together for warmth while hiding in a haystack, trembling with fear that troops would find us. Me afraid for my sanity, for my freedom; him fearing for his life.  What do I know about Alex, save his name and a few personal facts? Nothing, yet he's taken a place in my heart which I believed couldn't be touched any longer. I can't explain it, I don't want to try any longer. I'll just accept it as it is, and go with it.

"Moonrise," I manage hoarsely. "We should go…try to find a doctor. We can--"

His finger across my lips surprise me, block my words, and Alex shakes his head. His own voice is rusty, a hoarse whisper filled with fear, with loneliness, with need. "No. Leave...it be, Cal…please…." He pauses, squinting at me in the near-dark. "Leave me."

"I won't. I'm not craven; I'll stay with you 'til the end."

"Don't...need to."  His eyes are fever-bright, flashing at me; behind them I can see shadows. He's afraid of those shadows; all men are afraid of those shadows, and of the things that lurk within them.

"I do. I need to stay; you need me to stay."

He arches against the pain, a low moan rising in his throat. It must be getting bad, if he's letting me see this much of it now. I've been impressed by his strength, his bravery, holding himself against the pain. "Hurts…."

I nod, not sure what to do, other than to speed things for him, and though I said I wasn't craven, I can't do that for him. I'm not sure if it's cowardice, or selfishness, but I need him to be here for as long as he's meant to be. "You want some water?"

He shakes his head, mouthing 'wasteful'. I know what he means; giving water to a man more dead than alive is waste in its purest sense. I can't think of that, though; I don't. I know he won't take it willingly, so I fill my mouth with a swallow, not enough to slake a thirst of any kind, but enough to moisten his tongue, and bend to him.

Rather than fighting me, as I expected, he meets me, his mouth open, taking the water from me, swallowing against me. As fevered as he is, his lips and tongue are cool for a moment from the water trickling from me to him. When it's gone I pull away, the strange sick/sweet taste in my mouth again. It's not wholly unpleasant, rather a lot like a large spoonful of molasses or sorghum. Not bad, just too much sweet. I'll likely think of Alex each time I have one of those, now.

He clutches at me for a moment, then his hands loosen their grip on me, dropping from my shoulders to hold the loose fabric of my shirt. One hand touches my hair, then my cheek. "Thank...you."

"For what?" I'm sure I'm frowning at him; what could he be thanking me for?

For just an instant I can see the terror he must be feeling reflected in his eyes; those clear hazel depths are the color of nighttime now; of death, of all things dark. I tighten my grip on his hand, fingers holding him tightly, as much to keep me from shaking as to impart comfort.

"For not…leaving me."

"Bloody idiot." I surprise myself by brushing a kiss over his forehead, like I might do with Susan, Emily or Amy. My lips come away burning from the heat. It's hard to hold him now; he's shaking and shivering, body shifting under my hands. "I won't. I won't leave, Alex. Not 'til...'til it's over."

"I know." He falls silent then, his eyes watching me for a long moment. A smile creases his face, and he whispers again, very softly, "I know."

His eyes close as his breathing catches, ragged and harsh. A mile taken with each tiny step; his body nearly done running now.  I gather him close and rock back and forth slowly, a lullaby from my childhood rising to my lips, falling quietly around us.

 

~~fin~~

**Author's Note:**

> Not a m/m slash story, but it does contain some homoerotic overtones.
> 
> This isn't a death story as such, but death is imminent for one of the characters.
> 
> Originally submitted (and then rejected) for pro publishing some time in early 2000.


End file.
